


ends in trouble, starts with a grin

by nahco3



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: First Time, M/M, San Francisco Giants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-23
Updated: 2015-02-23
Packaged: 2018-03-14 17:04:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3418646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nahco3/pseuds/nahco3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s 2010 and Belt is awfully new to all of this: his Texas drawl still fresh and slow enough to make people think he’s dumb, more used to bus than air travel, his swing full of holes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	ends in trouble, starts with a grin

**Author's Note:**

> this is a product of my imagination - please don't share this with anyone who is mentioned in it, and if you found this by googling anyone involved please go back now!

Brandon Crawford’s got the kind of easy smile that makes people, mostly older women, smile back and call him a handsome, pour him a refill of his sweet tea for free. Brandon Belt experiences this for the first time about two hours after being introduced to Crawford. Belt’s just off ten hours of travel from San Jose to Virginia, via the Dallas/Fort Worth airport, and he’s dazed at how fast his life is moving. 

“You’ve been called up to Richmond,” his manager had said, after last night’s game. “Congratulations, son.” And so, Belt had headed out into the cool California night, cooler than summer had any right to be, missing the obliterating heat of Texas. Belt had called his mom while packing up his duffel bag, feeling unsettled. Tomorrow he was going somewhere he had never been before, at least until the Giants (Belt imagined a group of men in polo shirts, hunched over computers, in a dark room somewhere, throwing darts at pictures on a whiteboard) moved him somewhere else. 

“Take care, sweetie,” his mom said. “Don’t miss your flight, you hear?”

He didn’t miss it. He’d navigated the San Jose airport carefully, given himself time to spare so he could find his gate, even though the airport wasn’t difficult, wasn’t as near as big as San Francisco. It’s 2010 and Belt is awfully new to all of this: his Texas drawl still fresh and slow enough to make people think he’s dumb, more used to bus than air travel, his swing full of holes.

Richmond, once he got outside of the airport, was hot and humid, which was better than baffling summer fog. There was an older man in a Giants cap waiting for him past security. 

“Belt,” he said, shaking his hand. “Good to meet you. We’ve got a room for you in a place near the ballpark. The boys just finished a game, they’re going out to dinner. Thought I’d drop you there after you get settled in.” 

Belt nodded, adjusted the strap of his duffle bag on his shoulder. “Yes, sir.” 

So this is how he meets Crawford: grabbing the free seat next to him by chance as he settles in among his new teammates. He recognizes a guy from San Jose, Peguero, nice enough, but he’s sitting next to people already, speaking Spanish too fast for Belt to follow. 

“Hey,” Crawford says. “You the new guy up from San Jose?”

“Yup,” Belt says, grabbing a biscuit. “I’m Brandon Belt.” He holds out his hand, for Crawford to shake.

Crawford looks at his outstretched hand and laughs. “This isn’t fucking Buckingham Palace, man.” The way he says it, Belt can tell he doesn’t mean anything by it. “Brandon Crawford,” he says, “shortstop.” He shakes Belt’s hand with mock formality. 

“I play first base,” Belt tells him. “Reckon I’ll be seeing a lot of you, then.” 

“You better hope so,” Crawford tells him, turning to sweet talk the waitress for more tea. 

\--

Turns out Crawford’s spiking his tea with awful, cheap bourbon. “The San Francisco Giants object to paying for our alcohol,” he explains, handing Belt his flask, “seeing as a third of this team is underage assholes who never went to college, and another third’s some pretty washed out fuck-ups.” He flashes Belt another smile. “Present company excepted, of course.”

“Of course,” Belt agrees, taking his cup and drinking. The tea’s sweet enough to mask most of the awfulness of the bourbon, leaving just the pleasant burn on it. It tastes like summer, like long evenings on the porch, the sky going white with the afterburn of sunset. 

“Where you from?” Crawford asks. 

“Texas,” Belt answers. “You?” 

“Bay Area,” Crawford says, which is something Belt’s noticed about people from California, how weirdly specific they are about where they’re from, as if they don’t know every state has its own regional peculiarities. Everyone in California has to make you aware of theirs from the outset. 

“You go to college?” Crawford asks. 

“Yeah,” Belt says, “you did too, right?”

Crawford laughs. “And here I was trying to pretend I didn’t know all about you.”

Belt feels himself color, but hopes it doesn’t show under his tan. “Sorry. I never really know how to do,” he waves his hand, “this. Meeting another prospect. Or whatever.” 

“It’s fucking weird,” Crawford agrees, “like, when someone’s already memorized your height and weight and what some nerd with a baseball blog thinks of your college numbers.”

“And all this time, I thought you didn’t care,” Belt deadpans, and Crawford laughs and hits him. 

“Obviously not yours,” Crawford says, “I could tell you were a waste of my time, skipped right over your name on Baseball Prospectus’ list of ‘Fucking One Million Drunk 20 Year Olds Who Can Sort of Throw a Ball.’”

Belt laughs. “Yeah, well, don’t be hurt you didn’t make the cut.”

“Asshole,” Crawford says, pouring more bourbon into his glass, his smile irrepressible. 

“Anytime,” Belt says, feeling beneficent, like the world’s his to portion out and give away. 

\--

Next morning, it turns out they’re not playing him at first base, at least, not exclusively. “Thought we’d try you out in the outfield, too,” Dave Machemer, the manager, tells him.

“Yes, sir,” Belt says, because the Giants didn’t draft him to have opinions. “I’d be happy to try it.” He hasn’t played outfield since high school: likes first base, is better at it, has the instincts for grabbing line drives and the quick flick of a double play ball. He’d much rather pitch than play outfield, but no way is he telling Machemer that.

“Sucks,” Crawford says to him, during a water break. Crawford’s sitting on the grass, sunglasses off so he can wipe sweat off his face.

“Whatever it takes,” Belt says, sitting down beside him. “Whatever it takes.”

“Yeah,” Crawford agrees, “but come on, outfield? A dog could do that, it’s just fucking fetch. Doesn’t take any subtlety.” 

“Right, because you’re very subtle,” Belt says. This morning, Crawford was fielding balls from between his legs, making no look throws, like he’s Derek Jeter. It was something to see, but definitely wasn’t subtle. 

“You better believe it,” Crawford says, sprawling back on the grass. Belt gives Crawford a skeptical look, which he ignores. 

“You think you’re gonna play shortstop all the way up to San Fran?” Belt asks, pulling strands of grass out of the field.

Crawford rolls over on the grass to face Belt, keeping his eyes shadowed by his cap. “Please never call San Francisco that again. But,” he half shrugs, cocky, “yeah, I do.” 

“What’s wrong with San Fran?” Belt asks. 

“Dude, only tourists say that.” Crawford looks up at him. “You came up from San Jose calling the city San Fran?”

Belt shrugs, feeling like he’s starting to blush. “No one ever said anything.”

Crawford lies back on the grass. “Well, they’re idiots or assholes, then.” He flaps his hand in the air, dismissive. “Don’t worry, when we get up to the Show, I’ll look out for you.” Belt looks down at Crawford. He’s a year older than Belt, at most, hardly a veteran.

“Oh, you’ll protect me from the angry mobs of San Francisco?” Belt asks, drawing out the name. “My hero.”

Crawford hits him in the thigh. “You are so full of shit.”

“Oh, and you aren’t?” Belt asks. 

Crawford grins, white slice of his smile standing out against his tan. “Never denied it.” 

Belt smiles back at him, slow and easy, imagining the double plays they’ll turn, the way they’ll impress the management, get called up to Fresno in no time at all.

Two days later, Crawford gets drilled by an opposing pitcher in his upper thigh. He limps to first base, shaking his head. Belt waits for him to flash a smile, wink to the crowd. Instead, the trainer comes out, and Crawford walks slowly off the field with him. The manager puts a pinch runner in. Belt watches as Crawford limps down the dugout steps. Belt’s leaning on the rail, a little ways from the tunnel. Guys are giving Crawford sideways looks but not saying much, as if failure’s contagious somehow. Crawford turns his head left, right, his breathing heavy. Belt meets his eyes, gives him a smile he hopes is encouraging. He’s worried it looks more like a wince. Crawford half smiles back, disappearing into the shadows of the clubhouse.

By the time the game’s over, Crawford’s gone to the hospital. Bone bruise: he’ll be out for at least a month. Belt doesn’t even have Crawford’s cell phone number, Crawford’s disappeared back to California. Belt plays in the outfield, he plays in the infield. One sweltering day in August, someone tells him to get on a plane to AAA in Fresno. 

The Giants win the World Series, and Belt wishes he could text Crawford about it. He texts his mom instead: That’ll be me next year.

\--

He runs into Crawford again at spring training. They’re living in the same gross apartment complex, off the highway. When he’s moving in, he sees Crawford at the ice machine at the end of the hall.

“Hey, Crawford,” he calls. Crawford turns. He’s wearing a sky-blue UCLA t-shirt and Giants athletic shorts, leather flip flops. His hair is longer than Belt remembers it being. 

“Belt,” Crawford says, “hey.” He holds out his hand and Belt takes it. Crawford pulls him into a hug, their hands clasped between them, and thumps Belt on the back. 

“They’re playing you at first?” Crawford asks, when they pull apart.

“Seems like they’re thinking about it,” Belt says.

“Awesome,” Crawford says. “So this is the year we’re making it, right?”

“Opening day roster,” Belt agrees. 

“You living here too?” Crawford asks, then holds up his hand before Belt can reply. “Stupid question, of fucking course you are.” 

“Glad you realized,” Belt says, “I didn’t want to make you cry with my cutting response.”

“Yeah, I’ve already cried too many tears over you,” Crawford says, rolling his eyes. 

“Don’t mess with Texas,” Belt tells him. 

“Too late,” Crawford says, “or did you not hear about us winning the World Series?” 

“Were you there?” Belt asks. 

“I couldn’t get tickets to the games,” Crawford says, “but I went in for the parade. It was total fucking insanity. Like, everyone was high, there was confetti everywhere, people were just losing their minds.” 

“I wish I could have gone,” Belt says. 

“Yeah,” Crawford says. He pushes the hair out of his eyes with one hand. “It was great. But also it was.” He pauses. “Like, since I was a kid, I’ve been waiting for the Giants to win a World Series. And I always kind of imagined that,” he pauses again. “You know, kids are kinda dumb. But I always thought I’d be the one winning it for the city for the first time.”

“Yeah,” Belt says. He gets it. “I mean, just like no one really dreams of being in the minors, or being like, a reliable guy. You always think about being an All Star.” 

“You think it would be worse to never make it to the bigs, or to make it and be mediocre?” asks Crawford. 

“Not make it, for sure,” Belt says. He’s been dreaming of the majors since he was a kid. He wants to be a star, sure, but more than that, he wants to wake up every morning and put on a Giants uniform, any uniform really, take the field in front of tens thousands of fans, play against the best. He wants it like he’s never wanted anything else. 

Crawford sighs. In the low light of the hallway, his eyes are a shifting blue green. “I don’t know. I’ve always been the best guy on every team I’ve been on.”

Belt hits him. “Hey, asshole, you’ve been on a team with me.”

Crawford smiles at him, fast, dimpling. “Shut up and let me finish. I mean, until I got drafted, I was. And I sometimes wonder, am I really good enough? I know I’m good but. What if I don’t have that extra something? And I spend the rest of my life just, bouncing up and down between Fresno and San Francisco, hating everyone for being better than me.”

Belt doesn’t quite know what to say. It’s the realest thing Crawford’s ever told him. It makes his chest tighten, constricting around his pulsing and rising heart. Crawford looks up at him again with those changeable eyes.

“Sorry dude, that was a little nuts,” Crawford says, self-deprecating smile.

“Naw,” Belt says, throwing his arm over Crawford’s shoulder. “I get it.” For some reason, it feels like the right thing to do. If they were in uniform, on the field, there’d be nothing weird about it.

“Thanks,” Crawford says. He sort of rests against Belt’s side, still.

“Anyway don’t worry about it,” Belt says, removing his arm. “We gotta make it up there first.” 

“Right,” Crawford says, brushing his hair out of his eyes again. “That we do.” He smirks, the darker version of that cutting smile, maybe at himself, maybe at Belt. “Once you get unpacked, I think some of the guys are going out. Want to come with?”

“Sure,” Belt says, wishing he could think of a joke to deflect things, make Crawford smile a little easier, but he can’t. Everything he wants to say is horribly earnest. 

\--

Spring training starts the next day. For some of the guys, the veterans, Belt figures it must be pretty fun: running around like college kids again in the Arizona sun, sunburnt, drunk Californians screaming their names at games like it’s the World Series all over again, kids bouncing up and down for their autographs, girls smiling at them up through their eyelashes. Then, there’s the rest of the players. 

Belt’s working harder than he ever has in his life.The coaches work the infielders together, making them dive across the dirt over and over again after ground balls and run wind sprints down the baselines. 

During one of his water breaks, he sneaks a look over at Crawford, just to see him, face tight with concentration, fielding one hop balls, flipping them to first, to second, to third, home: wherever he’s told. He’s as smooth as the water down Belt’s throat, making everything look easy.

Brian Wilson’s getting water next to Belt. Wilson is worse than the rest of the other veterans combined. He’s got a loud laugh, parties louder and longer than any of the guys trying to make the team could ever risk doing. During practice, he clowns around in front of the coaches, making Buster Posey and the bullpen guys lose it.

Belt figures he’s earned it, but he sometimes wishes the guy would tone it down. It makes him think of the rich kids he went to college with, the kids who didn’t have to worry about keeping their scholarships and went out whenever they wanted, kids without work-study jobs, with new cars their parents bought them. People who don’t care they’re reminding you they’ve got everything and all you’ve got is a fear of failure that keeps you up nights. Belt still feels like he’s about to throw up when Bochy watches him, inscrutable. It’s all a little unfair.

“Hey,” Wilson says to Tim Lincecum (two Cy Youngs, a SportsCenter commercial, one World Series ring, fuck, how is Belt ever going to make this team). “Look at pretty boy over there at short. Don’t you think he looks like John Stamos?” 

Lincecum looks up and shrugs. “Yeah,” he says. “I can see it.” 

Wilson turns to Belt. “You, potential rookie. What do you think?” Belt looks up; Wilson is pointing at Crawford. 

Belt looks at Wilson, poleaxed. He isn’t sure if he’s supposed to agree, placate Wilson, or disagree, tell Wilson he doesn’t think about guys like that, that Crawford’s not pretty at all. 

Wilson slaps Belt on the back. “A little fucking slow there, are you? It’s ok, everyone knows pitchers are the smart ones.” He saunters off and Lincecum looks at Belt and shrugs as if to say, “you’ll get used to him,” then walks off after him.

“Belt, get back out here,” Bochy calls, and Belt kills his water and goes, his eyes down on the green grass as he jogs. 

\--

That afternoon in the clubhouse, Belt is already dressed, checking his texts and waiting for Crawford. They’re going to go get Mexican food with a few of the other infielders, and Belt promised to give Crawford a ride. Belt glances up from his phone to see Crawford getting out of the shower, his towel low-slung around his waist. He looks back down at the screen, considering what to text his mom about the day’s workout.

“Hey, Stamos,” Wilson calls, and Belt looks up in time to see Wilson slap Crawford on the ass, resoundingly, with a wet towel. 

Crawford starts, his body tensing. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he says, looking over at Wilson. “Warn a guy next time.”

“What’s the point of that?” Wilson asks. Pat Burrell, sitting next to Wilson, laughs in agreement. “Come on, Hollywood, can’t handle a little surprise?”

Crawford shrugs and gives them both a smile, affable. “Your mom handled the surprise I gave her last night,” he says, “and trust me, it wasn’t little.” Wilson laughs and hits Burrell, and their conversation moves on. Crawford walks over to his locker. Belt darts his eyes over. Behind the shielding of his open locker, Crawford rolls his eyes, his mouth set firm. Belt bites the inside of his lip and starts a game of Tetris on his phone, but he can’t make his eyes focus. 

It becomes a pretty regular thing: preemptive rookie hazing, casual locker room stuff, always “hey Stamos, bend over and grab my bag,” “Hollywood, come here,” guys wacking Crawford’s ass, calling him pretty boy and pinching his cheeks, “does your ass have dimples like that too?” 

Crawford smiles, complies, dodges slaps easily. He banters back, especially with Wilson, but Belt can tell he’s being careful, never saying anything too mean or too smart, letting Wilson get the last word. Belt’s always on the periphery of it, packing his bag at the end of the day, taking batting practice, listening and watching, his eyes tracking Crawford almost without realizing. His knuckles are tight around the bat, around his phone; he’s on edge like it’s a game. 

They’re at the bar eight days before spring training ends. Almost all the guys who haven’t been cut yet are there, drinking beer and hitting on college girls, celebrating a massive win against the Rockies. Belt’s finishing a game of pool with Javier Lopez, who is a fucking shark, and as a result can only play teammates too new or stupid to know better, like, apparently, Belt himself. Belt hands Lopez his money and looks over to the bar, where Crawford is sitting, a blond woman on one side of him and Wilson on the other. Wilson says something, leaning across Crawford and ruffling his hair, to make the girl laugh. Crawford shakes Wilson’s hand out of his hair and stands, his hands up in a gesture of surrender. Wilson moves in towards the girl. Crawford, seeing Belt, waves him over and they sit down at a table together. 

“Do you mind?” Belt asks Crawford.

“Do I mind what?” Crawford asks, taking a long pull of his beer. 

Belt nods over at Wilson. “All that.”

Crawford shrugs. “I didn’t want to sleep with her so, whatever, no.”

“No, I mean all the ‘pretty boy’ stuff.”

“Did you just make air quotes, Belt? Because I have to say, I have seen some stupid shit tonight, but that’s in the top three stupidest things, easily.”

Belt rolls his eyes. “I went to college. I know how to cite my sources.”

“Yeah, put Wilson comma Brian in your fucking annotated bibliography, nerd,” Crawford says. In the neon light of the bar his eyes look almost silver. He takes another drink from his beer. “I figure, if the guys on the team give me shit, at least they’ve noticed me, right? And that’s a good thing.” Belt nods in agreement, and Crawford continues. “Plus I’ve heard the front office is really into team chemistry. So,” he spins his beer bottle on the table, unpeeling the label. “Might as well make sure they like me, right? Or least think I’m funny.”

“Yeah,” Belt says, “makes sense.” It does, actually, and that’s like Crawford, always two steps ahead of everyone else, playing like he can predict the future.

“Does it bother you?” Crawford asks, looking up from the bottle to meet Belt’s eyes. Belt makes himself hold eye contact.

“Seems weird to me,” Belt says, trying to say what he means, carefully. “Like, Wilson and Burrell and Huff, all them, act like they can get away with saying anything. But if any of us did half of what they do...” he trails off, leaving the rest to implication. His heart is beating high and fast in his chest, not sure if he’s taking a dumbass risk. But, looking at Crawford, his small smile, soft eyes, he doesn’t think so.

“Yeah,” Crawford says. “But I mean, how’s that different from college, or high school? Some guys can say anything and some guys,” he shrugs. “Some guys are always going to get a lot of shit.” 

“It’s not,” Belt says. “It’s just. I don’t know. You kind of think, San Francisco, right? Things might be different.” He looks down at the table. He thinks, don’t make me regret saying this, I hardly know what I’m talking about myself.

Crawford lets out a slow breath. “Lots of guys on this team aren’t from the West coast,” he says, evenly, like it’s a code for something.

“Think I figured that one out for myself,” Belt says, rolling his eyes. “It just,” he bites his lip, trying to think of how to say it. “I guess it gets to me. I let it get to me.”

“Ignore them,” Crawford says, “seriously.” He leans forward. “Look man, it’s bullshit, you know it’s bullshit, I know it’s bullshit. You don’t even have to play along. Just like, sit there and look Texan.”

“Look Texan?” Belt says. 

Crawford smiles, a lean sliver this time. Belt’s amazed at all the different kinds of smiles Crawford has, a whole arsenal, it’s dazzling, really. “Like your cows have gotten away and you’re really confused about it.”

“I object to that regional stereotype,” Belt says. 

Crawford leans back in his chair again, exposing the line of his throat to the low light of the bar. This night’s getting brutal, between losing his money to Javi, dealing with Wilson and then this. He needs to go. 

“If I recall, you were employing some regional stereotypes not long ago,” Crawford says. He takes another sip of his beer. “Something about San Francisco ring any bells to you?”

Belt must start, some of the mess of fear and confusion and attraction must show in his face, because Crawford holds a hand up. “Don’t worry about it. I was just teasing you.” 

“Sorry,” Belt says, “I feel like I’m kinda going crazy, that’s all.”

Crawford slumps in his chair. “Me too, dude, me too.” He sighs. “Come on Belt, let’s bounce. This place is dead anyway.”

“Sure,” Belt says, following him out into the Arizona night. The desert air’s clear, feels the same temperature as his skin, as if he’s stepping into the water. “How drunk are you?”

Crawford waves his hand in the air, dismissive, but throws Belt his keys, an easy side arm throw.

They get in Crawford’s car, Belt pushing the driver’s seat back. Crawford plays with the radio, switching the station every two seconds, not letting Belt adjust to the song before he changes it. 

“Stop it,” Belt says, slapping Crawford’s hand away from the dial. “Seriously, commit to something.”

Crawford grins at him in the half-light and Belt has to stop looking at this guy’s mouth. “If you insist.” He settles on terrible rap, which Belt figures he would. He’s heard Crawford’s walk-up music. They drive in silence for a few minutes.

Crawford breaks it. “When I was in high school I used to go to gay bars in San Francisco because they didn’t card me.” It sounds like he’s laughing at the memory, a little bit, and Belt can picture Crawford, blue eyes, baby face, giving a bouncer a guileless look and then walking into - but here Belt’s imagination fails. He’s never been to anything remotely like a gay bar, doesn’t know how to picture it beyond what caricatures and porn have provided him. Both seem like they’d be a disservice to Crawford.

“What I’m saying man,” Crawford says, “is that we’re cool. You can trust me, you don’t need to worry about anything, ok?”

Belt’s mouth is dry. “I’m not really - I mean, I don’t really know?” he says, and it feels like a huge admission, earth-shaking, but next to him Crawford’s just smiling and drumming his fingers to Nicki Minaj. 

“Seriously dude, don’t worry about it. Focus on baseball, right? You’ve got time for all this existential shit when you make the team.” Crawford sounds like he’s giving them both a pep talk. 

“Right,” Belt says, his heart still beating high and fast in his chest. “You and me, opening day.”

Crawford puts out his fist for Belt to bump; Belt does. “Better fucking believe it.”

\--

The next day at practice, Belt’s taking a cool down jog when he hears a yelp, looks over and there’s Crawford, pale-faced, wincing, waving for the trainers who are already descending on him. Crawford and the trainers walk off the field together, and Belt gives them five minutes and then runs after them.

Crawford’s in the trainers’ room, sitting on the paper-lined table by himself, cradling his hand.

“They’re sending me for x-rays,” he says, when Belt comes in. “Prolly a break though.”

“How long?” Belt says, leaning against the door. 

Crawford looks at him, eyes Gulf coast green and scrubbed like maybe he’s been crying, even though broken fingers don’t hurt that bad. “They don’t know, maybe two months?”

“Shit, man,” Belt says, and he wants to hug Crawford, pound him on the back, kiss the top of his head like he’s his mom or something. 

The trainer comes back in. “We’re ready to go, Crawford.” Crawford nods, stands. 

“Kill it, Belt,” he says, brushing his shoulder against Belt’s. 

“See you soon, Crawford,” Belt says, “see you in San Fran.”

“San Francisco, you idiot,” Crawford says, fractured smile but hey, it’s better than nothing.

\--

Belt starts at first base on Opening Day, in Los Angeles. It’s - well, it’s overwhelming. Reigning World Series champions, in the gold-grey concrete stadium of their rivals, Belt feels unmoored from all of it. All the veterans are sharing their LA stories: walk-offs, guys who got pegged, crazy fans, shit Bonds used to do, stuff from back when they were the New York Giants playing the Brooklyn Dodgers, filling the Polo Grounds with baying, booing fans. Belt gets rivalries, he’s a Longhorn. But still.

He calls Crawford from his hotel room the night before the game. “What’s the deal with LA?”

“Yo, fuck LA,” Crawford says. “Seriously, fuck everything about that team and that cesspool of urban blight.” 

“I thought you went to college there?” Belt asks. 

“Yeah,” Crawford says, “so trust me man, I know. The things I’ve seen - dead walking the streets, pulsing sores, Matt Kemp,” he makes a retching sound, “I would not wish that on your virgin eyes, Belt.”

Belt’s blushing, half glad Crawford’s back in his apartment up north. “I’m not a virgin.” He feels idiotic even saying it.

“Figure of speech,” Crawford says. “Anyway. How’s the Show?”

“I’ll tell you when I figure it out,” Belt says. “I feel like I’m probably going to puke tomorrow.”

“Do it on a Dodger,” Crawford says, “and eat something gross first.”

“How’re you?” Belt asks.

“Eh,” Crawford says, “shitty.” Belt tries to imagine the expression he’ll be wearing: small, self-deprecating smile or a broad smirk; if his eyes look green or blue or some mix. 

“Sorry,” Belt says. “I wish you were here.” He winces; he sounds like a bad postcard. 

“Yeah man, me too,” Crawford says. “I just, fuck. It sucks because I’m injured and can’t do anything and it sucks that I’m not there with the team and it just -”

“Sucks?” Belt asks.

“You mock my pain,” Crawford says. 

“Sorry,” Belt says, off balance without Crawford’s dimpling smile, narrowing eyes, to guide him.

“It’s cool, it’s a movie quote,” Crawford says. “Don’t worry about it, I didn’t except your hick, Texan-ass self to recognize it.”

“Movies?” Belt asks. “Are those the talking, moving pictures? They always scared the cows so I could never watch them.”

Crawford laughs, and something in Belt’s chest loosens. “Right, obviously.” 

“Cows are very flighty animals,” Belt says, lying back onto the hotel bed, stretching out his legs. 

“I have a strong suspicion you are fucking with me,” Crawford says. 

“Not just a pretty face, are you?” It’s out before Belt can stop himself. “Fuck, sorry.”

“You’re too smart to be using Wilson’s lines,” Crawford says, and Belt can’t read Crawford’s tone. It’s even, controlled: could be he’s pissed, could be he’s joking, and Belt wishes he could just see his face.

“Yeah, I mostly save them for your mom, she’s dumb enough to fall for them,” Belt replies.

That gets a genuine laugh, at least. “Fucker.” They’re both quiet for a second, Belt’s fingers playing across the quilt. 

“I’m sorry though, actually,” Belt says. “That wasn’t cool.” 

“It’s fine, Belt.” Crawford sounds tired.

“No, it’s not. I mean, you put up with it from the vets when you thought it would help you make the team but I know you hated it and now -”

“Well, now it doesn’t matter what I think because I’m not on the team anyway,” Crawford says, and Belt needs to stop talking before he pisses off Crawford more, but he can’t hang up and leave Crawford with that bitterness in his voice.

“You play short like I’ve never seen and you’re probably smarter than everyone I went to school with,” Belt says, phone pressed against his cheek, uncomfortable. “You’re going to make it up here and crush it.”

“You’ve got no way of knowing that,” Crawford says, “but thanks.” He doesn’t sound mad anymore, just tired. “Speaking of crushing it, you should go to bed. You have to beat LA tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Belt says. “Night, Crawford.”

“Night, Brandon,” Crawford says, and hangs up, leaving Belt reeling, wishing he could have seen his name on Crawford’s lips. 

\--

Belt doesn’t throw up on Opening Day. He stands tall when the jets fly overhead and the national anthem plays. In the dugout, he sits next to Madison Bumgarner. Bumgarner doesn’t pay much attention to the pitcher/outfielder divide, does not, in fact, seem to pay much attention to anything but making his pitches. He sits a lot, staring into the middle distance, eating sunflower seeds. Belt likes him, likes that he doesn’t mind silence, the familiarity of his drawl when he talks. They get along. 

“You nervous?” Bumgarner asks, bottom of the first, when Belt reaches for his glove and gets ready to jog onto the field.

“Nope,” Belt says, his heart pounding like a drum. “Not even a little.”

Bumgarner nods, accepting the response, and Belt jogs out onto the field, the green grass he’s dreamed about for so long, at last and officially a major league baseball player.

His first at bat comes in the second. None of the other guys have been able to get a hit off Kershaw - yet - Belt reminds himself. He stands at home plate, watches a fastball go by, his grip loose around his bat, watches a curveball miss the zone. He waits like he’s got all the time in the world, like this is Little League and he’s in the park.

Kershaw winds up and Belt knows, just knows, he’s going to get another fastball, low and away. He swings. There’s solid contact, the bat jumping in his hand like it’s alive and he sprints for first, arrives there, panting. 

Roberto Kelly, the first base coach, pats him on the back and takes his batting gloves from him.

“Good job,” Kelly says. “First hit is always the hardest.”

Belt nods, his heart pounding in his chest, out of control, because that wasn’t hard at all. He could hit line drives against this fucker all day in the California sunset. The scattered boos from the crowd sound like a benediction. He breathes in, he breathes out, not afraid anymore.

\--

His next at bat, he draws a walk. He throws his bat behind him, likes the slow easy arc it takes as he jogs to first. He nods to Kelly, crouches down, ready to run. The game’s still scoreless but Belt thinks, that’s going to change real soon. 

He makes it to second, to third. Two outs, sweat dripping down the back of his neck. Crack of the bat and he runs, headlong. He makes it home but it doesn’t matter. The Dodgers get the force out at second, the inning’s over, all of Belt’s careful advancement was for nothing. 

After that, it’s like their luck melts away. Tim gives up a run in the sixth and the bullpen gives up one in the eighth. Belt can’t get another hit, can see the pitches but can’t connect with them, keeps fouling back what should have been home runs. 

Lincecum sits in the bullpen, towel draped over his head, wincing as their batters go down, one, two, three, taking the loss with a bitter shrug.

There’s a series of texts from Crawford when he turns on his phone after the game. In order, they read:

You look so awkward why did the camera do a close up there

A HIT YEAHHHHHHHHH

Fuck score some fucking runs

Runs???????

I hate la

Rally? No why would you ever rally who does that

Sucks about the loss, get them tomorrow

Belt grins, keeping his head down. The locker room’s not exactly somber; they’re playing music pretty loud and reminding themselves they won the fucking World Series, what have the Dodgers ever done, just wait until tomorrow. But still, Belt doesn’t want to commit some unknown rookie sin, like looking too happy after they handed their ace a loss. 

Better believe we will, he texts back. 

\--

Belt goes to bed early that night, with his scouting report on Billingsley, the Dodgers’ next starter. He wants to call Crawford, which is precisely why he doesn’t. His alarm goes off and it’s another flawless California day, a shining spring morning, a perfect day for baseball. Belt feels the frisson of anticipation for the night’s game and embraces it.

The good feeling lasts until the team meeting after breakfast. Bochy starts it off, terse. If they didn’t already know, last night a Giants fan was attacked, beaten by a group of Dodgers fans. He’s in a bad shape, might die. His name’s Bryan Stow. He has kids. 

There’s an ugly catch in Belt’s chest, concern and fear and disgust and it settles into fury. He can’t think about what he can’t control: a guy who just wanted to see a baseball game, cheer for his team now trapped in a hospital somewhere, trapped inside his own head and broken body. He can’t think about it because it sparks more anxieties, what ifs, transposes and magnifies his fear for this stranger to something more insidious and creeping. What if tomorrow his dad gets hit by a truck, what if his mom gets cancer, what if he breaks his legs so bad he can’t run, what if Crawford takes a pitch to the face and never gets up, a litany of evils.

He thinks about baseball and beating the Dodgers.

It’s a bad game that night. The Dodgers go ahead early by four and everyone’s angry. Belt thought he understood rivalries but this is different now, this hate settling into his bones. It’s only his second day in the bigs, but Belt thinks when he dies they’ll find this anger in him somewhere, dark and hard, calcified. 

Belt hits a three run homer, the crack of the bat like a crack of a skull, running the bases and letting the boos come thinking fuck you, fuck you. Those are the only runs the Giants score that night and they take a second loss, more fractious than the first.

Crawford calls him late that night, after the game, after he and the other rookies have sat in the hotel bar talking, half-yelling, frustration jumping under all their skins.

Neither of them want to talk about the game. Crawford’s voice has the jagged edges of an animal caught in a trap, a dog throwing itself against the end of its leash over and over.

They talk about video games, about dumb movies. Crawford complains about the assholes who use the gym where he’s working out right now, Belt about rich people wearing unscuffed cowboy boots. They don’t stop talking until really late, when even the freeway outside the hotel is quiet, the whole world asleep but the two them.

“Get them tomorrow,” Crawford says, “promise me, man.”

“Of course,” Belt says, hangs up before he can say something like “anything you want.” 

\--

They win that night but Belt doesn’t get a hit. The win doesn’t do much to loosen the knot in Belt’s stomach, the fear overlayed with anger. It’s like the Dodgers did something to them, rubbed the silver shine off the team, off all of them. Belt doesn’t sleep well anymore, realizes now that he’s made the team he has to stay on it. He’s been lucky so far, starting at first base. But now the ball’s disappearing when he hits, dropping unexpectedly. He’s always swinging just a second too late or too early.

They go to San Diego. They go to San Francisco - home, Belt should say, they go home. He wants to explore the city but instead he stays inside the little apartment the team’s renting for him, lying on the dirty carpet and watching tape of his swing. A nice woman from the front office told him the accommodations are “just temporary,” and Belt knows he’s on the edge. In a month he could be blowing his signing bonus on an apartment in a steel and glass building near the ball park, in a month he could be back in Fresno. 

The home opener is insane. Wide blue California skies, the bay just beyond the metal gratings in right field, the field so green it hurts your eyes to look at it. Belt’s never heard cheering so loud, and even though he’s not the focus of it, not really, he wraps it around himself anyway. Another demand, another expectation, a bright flash of pressure in his chest.

Wilson blows the save and it takes them twelve innings to scrape out the win. At the end of it, Belt’s exhausted, worn out from concentrating. Crawford was at the game, and they’d made plans to meet up afterward and go to a bar. He meets Belt outside the player’s exit. 

Wilson has an arm over Crawford’s shoulder. “Stamos, I have to sign your cast!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Crawford says. “Belt, you have a pen?” 

Belt does. He pulls a Sharpie out of his bag, hands it to Wilson. Crawford holds out his cast - it’s white and pretty small, just around his hand. Wilson scrawls his name on the cast, draws a dick (of course he does.) “Now it’s worth more than you are,” Wilson says.

“Hey man,” Crawford says, “you’re disregarding my million dollar smile.”

Wilson snorts. “How could I forget, Hollywood?”

“Search me,” Crawford says, giving Wilson his widest grin. Belt prefers Crawford’s smaller smiles, the ones that light his eyes all the way up, but this one’s pretty memorable too.

“See you later, rook,” Wilson says, to Belt. “You too, Stamos.” He puts his headphones in and heads toward the street.

“He took my pen,” Belt says to Crawford, and Crawford bursts out laughing. 

“I was wondering if you’d notice that,” Crawford says.

“Of course I did,” Belt says. “It was a good pen.”

“I’ll buy you a new one,” Crawford says. “So, where you want to go tonight?”

“Home?” Belt says. “I need to ice, sorry.” His throwing arm’s sore, nothing serious but also nothing he wants to risk. 

“No, it’s cool,” Crawford says. “Mind if I come with? I don’t really feel like going back to purgatory yet.” 

“Sure,” Belt says, stubbornly ignoring the jolt in his chest. “I’ll call a cab.” 

They wait out on the Embarcadero for the cab to come. There’s a slow trickle of fans still leaving the park, but no one recognizes either of them. Why would they? A minor league prospect and a rookie first baseman who’s hardly been dazzling, they’re no one anyone would notice. Above them, the sky’s clear, but the stars are invisible against the push of the city lights. 

That makes Belt feel better somehow, the anonymity. After days of knowing the coaches are watching his every move, taping it to scrutinize it further, it’s a relief to be unnoticed. 

“Think that’ll be us one day?” Crawford asks, pointing back to the plaques set along the brick walls of the ballpark. 

Belt shrugs. “Maybe.”

“What’s up?” Crawford says, bumping his shoulder against Belt’s. Their bare arms brush, just for a second. Crawford’s skin is smooth and warm. 

“Remember in Arizona, when you asked like, would you rather make it to the majors, or make it and not be that good?” Belt looks over at Crawford. In the dim glow from the streetlights and the traffic light, he looks tired, bags under his eyes. Tonight his eyes look almost serpent green.

“You’ve been up for like a week,” Crawford says. “It’s going to take time to adjust, but you will. At least you’re here.” 

“I know, that’s why I feel like an asshole,” Belt says. “And I know I need to not let it get to me, to adapt.”

“But it gets hard,” Crawford says. “We have to be constantly perfect and never injured for like, the next three years. And even if we are, someone’s got to fuck up first, so we can take their job.”

“And we could get traded to like, Cincinatti, tomorrow.”

“Fuck,” Crawford says. “Remind why we do this again.”

“It’s like nothing else,” Belt says, “when you get up here, you’ll realize. Even when it’s bad, it’s good.”

“Like sex.” Crawford says, voice dry. The light at the corner turns green, the sudden traffic noise making Belt start. Before he can think of a response, their cab pulls up.

“After you,” Crawford says, making Belt slide across the backseat of the cab, his limbs long and awkward. They drive down the Embarcadero, Belt leans across the middle seat to see the Bay Bridge as Crawford points it out. His body is almost pressed against Crawford’s. Dark water of the bay, dark sky, dark bridge, the slow golden whiz of traffic across it, Crawford’s quiet voice, telling him it’s called Treasure Island because pirates landed there, once.

“Liar,” Belt says, and Crawford’s half smile is like the silver sliver of the moon above them.

\--

Belt ices his arms with frozen peas. He started doing it in college. Peas are cheap, and you can refreeze them when you’re done icing, and if you’re ever totally out of food you can eat them, too. He leaves Crawford on the couch to grab a bag out of the freezer, and snags two beers while he’s up. 

He hands a beer to Crawford, who leans forward and opens it on the edge of the end table, a quick hit with the palm of his hand. It leaves a divot in the wood.

“It was a twist-off, asshole,” Belt says, and Crawford laughs.

“Oops,” he says, taking a long swig. Belt leans back on the couch and settles the frozen peas on his arm, takes a sip of his own beer. They’re quiet for a while, drinking. Traffic outside, the click of Crawford’s fingertips against his beer bottle and Belt’s pulse, loud, is all Belt hears. 

Belt has been studiously not thinking about this, is the thing. He’s been focusing on hitting and making his plays, trying to absorb as much as he can in case this is as much time as he spends in the majors. He wants to be able to tell his future kids stories about the time dad was a major leaguer that aren’t: dad really liked this one minor league shortstop’s mouth, dad wondered what this guy’s laugh would feel like up close, if their chests were pressed together. Barely a week in the majors and Belt already feels ruined by it, like every day has been years long.

“Dude,” Crawford says, “I do not know what you’re beating yourself up about, but you gotta stop.” 

Belt looks over at him, and there’s a long beat of silence. He has this feeling, like he’s at bat and he knows there’s a fastball coming, that he’s gotta hurry up and swing, or miss out and hit only empty air.

Crawford turns his head to the side to take a drink of his beer. Belt watches Crawford’s throat work as Crawford swallows, then looks up to watch the brown sweep of his eyelashes. Belt isn’t drunk but goddamn, Brandon Crawford, lips slick, eyes quicksilver, is providing all the excuses for idiocy he needs. 

“Is this a good idea?” Belt asks. “I’m asking mainly because I don’t have a clue.” 

Crawford snorts a laugh. “The fuck do I know,” he says. 

“Right then,” Belt says, and kisses him. The angle is bad; Belt’s twisted, his arm trapped between them. It doesn’t matter. Crawford’s mouth curves like a smile against his and then opens and Belt is lost, gone on the soft heat of Crawford’s mouth and the rough scratch of his beard, Crawford’s broad hand reaching up to cup the back of his neck.

Crawford pulls back, just a fraction. “Brandon,” Crawford says, and maybe he means to continue, but then Belt’s managed to settle himself back on the couch, pull Crawford forward to meet him. The tug of Belt’s hands elicits a small, cut-off noise from Crawford, and he leans forward. Just before their mouths meet, Crawford’s eyelashes brush soft against Belt’s cheeks, and then they’re kissing again.

Belt gets his hands underneath Crawford’s shirt, smooth expanse of his back, the cut of his abs, broad body, his skin impossibly hot. The calluses on Belt’s hands catch against the nobs of Crawford’s spine and Crawford moans. Crawford has his good hand wrapped around Belt’s waist, half-supporting himself. 

They break apart again. “Can we maybe just - “ Belt asks, blushing, glad it’s dark so Crawford can’t see. Crawford slides his hand up Belt’s back, gentle. 

“Sure man,” Crawford says, “whatever you want.” He kisses Belt again, one hand against the back of Belt’s neck, his thumb rubbing against the soft skin there, his other hand, in the cast, now on Belt’s lower back, just above the curve of his ass, just the slight pressure there doing more than enough to drive Belt crazy. It scares him, how much he likes it, how good it feels.

They kiss for a long time, until Belt’s dizzy with it, their bodies pressed together. Belt thinks he could never get tired of this feeling, pressing himself into Crawford, the solidness of him, and he lets himself push Crawford back against the sofa, straddling him. Belt gets his hands into Crawford’s hair, tugs just slightly, and Crawford makes another little sound, opens his knees and shifts, so that their hips are aligned, and then pushes upward, so their cocks are pressed together. 

“Fuck,” Belt says. It feels different from anything else he’s ever done, it feels so good, a pressure building within him. 

“You good?” Crawford asks, pressing his lips to the corner of Belt’s mouth and rocking his hips up against Belt slowly. 

Belt nods, pressing their foreheads together. He knows, in a distant sort of way, he should be freaking out, but his fingers are tangled in Crawford’s shirt, his mouth inches from Crawford’s. Crawford kisses him again, briefly, his beard rough against Belt’s face.

“You can let me know, yeah?” Crawford says, his hand coming off Belt’s neck, resting against Belt’s shoulder, as he stills his hips. 

“I’m good,” Belt says, pushing down against Crawford. Then they’re kissing again, and Crawford works his hand down Belt’s back, pushing his sweatpants and boxers down. The scratch of his fingernails against the side of Belt’s ass makes his bite down on Crawford’s lip.

Crawford bites back and lifts his hips, permissive, while Belt pushes at Crawford’s pants one-handed and much less skillfully. Eventually he gets them, and Crawford’s boxers, pulled down low enough. 

It goes real fast after that. Belt gets a hand around Crawford’s dick and his own, and Crawford exhales, ragged, his head falling back. Everywhere they touch feels like it’s burning to Belt, their dicks and their chests and Crawford’s hand on his ass, pulling them closer together, the possessive heat of it sparking deep within Belt’s chest. 

Neither of them last long, Belt’s hand speeding up, his rhythm uneven, Crawford’s desperate noises pushing him onward until he’s coming on Crawford’s chest, Crawford following him.

Belt collapses on top of Crawford, and Crawford lets out a low laugh, his hand still moving up and down Belt’s back. Belt wipes his hand on the sofa, their stomachs a sticky mess still. 

“Goddamn, Brandon,” Crawford says, soft and Belt has to laugh too, his face pressed against Crawford’s shoulder. 

“Yeah,” Belt agrees, meaning a whole lot more and not sure how to say it all. Crawford kisses Belt’s forehead and Belt thinks maybe he gets it though, all the stuff Belt’s not saying.

\--

Crawford spends the night in Belt’s bed. Belt usually has problems sleeping; it never really gets dark in the city, and there’s always the sound of sirens, voices, occasionally glass breaking. That night, though, Belt falls asleep fast, his mind clear, at home for the first time since he left for college. 

In the morning, Crawford’s in his kitchen, pouring cereal all over the counter. 

“Shut up,” Crawford says, when he sees Belt. He’s biting his lip, as though that could hold back his smile. “You try making breakfast one handed.”

“Naw,” Belt says, exaggerating his drawl. He wants to kiss Crawford so much it hurts a little, the way your cheeks hurt when you’ve smiled too much, the way your whole body hurts after a good workout. “We can just go out?”

“Is that a date?” Crawford asks, coming up into Belt’s space just a little, looking up at Belt through his lashes, his eyes clear like the sky this morning.

“It could be,” Belt offers, resisting the urge to shove his hands in his pockets and shuffle his feet, resisting the urge to touch Crawford, joyful and off balance and terrified at the same time. Rookie year, he thinks, who the fuck knows what’s happening.

“Well then,” Crawford says, “you’re paying, Mr. Big Leaguer.” 

“You know, I think you make more than me,” Belt points out, grateful for the familiarity of Crawford’s bullshit and baseball. “You got drafted higher than me, so.”

“I did, didn’t I,” Crawford says, laughing. “Awkward. I can’t believe I’m here slumming it with you when I could be -” 

“Shut up,” Belt says, laughing. 

They go to a little diner not far from Belt’s apartment. Belt likes it because it’s not ironic or faux-retro or whatever. The booths are the kind of gross red fake leather that sticks to your bare skin, the coffee is burnt, there’s Frank’s hot sauce on every table, the tops of the bottles crusted. Tiny glasses of ice water, white mugs of coffee. No one there has a fancy laptop out at the table. It’s the kind of place Belt used to go when he was hungover in college, the kind of place he could always afford. 

They eat a lot. Crawford talks, mostly, complaining about his rehab, joking around, but their legs are tangled together under the table.

“You ok?” Crawford asks. He’s looking down at his plate, but darts his eyes up to look at Belt. 

“I’m -” Belt begins, but stops. The waitress is right there. “More coffee?” she asks.

“Nope,” Crawford says, same time as Belt says, “No thank you, ma’am.” 

“Ma’am?” Crawford asks and Belt blushes, but then Crawford reaches out, his good hand resting against Belt’s on top of the table. “Brandon,” he says, his voice going his soft and serious. “Are we good?” Crawford bites his lips again, his eyes flicking up to Belt’s then down again, to their touching hands. 

“Yeah,” Belt says. “I mean. I don’t.” He lets out a long breath. “I don’t really know how this stuff is supposed to go.”

Crawford smiles at him, maybe a little sad. “It goes how we want it to go,” he says. “I don’t really know either.” He gives this little half laugh. “Don’t tell anyone I said that.” 

“Wasn’t gonna,” Belt says, a little overcome by Crawford in the filtered light of San Francisco morning, his native habitat. The circles under his eyes and his crisp baseball tan, the way his hair fades from dark to light, sunbleached. It’s stupidly comforting to realize Crawford doesn’t have a fucking clue either, that neither of them do. They’re adrift in the city, both of them waiting to be sent down or called up, moved like chess pieces in a game they can’t control. 

“I think I’d go crazy without you,” Belt admits. 

Crawford gives another little laugh, one of his frayed ones, fucked up around the edges. “Me too,” he says. “I need you around, however you want it to be but. Don’t go.” 

Belt thinks about Richmond and Fresno, LA, San Diego, Milwaukee: all the places he could be tomorrow while Crawford stays here, as Californian as a fault line, ten minutes or ten years from shaking apart.

“You got me,” he says, flipping his hand just a little so he can hold Crawford’s in his, just for a second. “You got me.”

**Author's Note:**

> this took me two years on and off to write (oh god) - a massive thanks to everyone who has helped me along the way, including tumblr users [mightequinn](http://mightequinn.tumblr.com) and [misterracoon](http://misterracoon.tumblr.com). you are the best!!!
> 
> all the details are accurate to the best of my abilities, but please let me know if you spot something wrong. 
> 
> title is from the song Down in the Valley by the Head and the Heart. 
> 
> you can find me on tumblr as [baking-soda](http://baking-soda.tumblr.com).


End file.
